


Revolutions on Ice

by SamanthaBlue



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Ice Dancing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Asexual!Enjolras, Crossdressing, Gen, boys sharing ice cream, queerplatonic life partners
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaBlue/pseuds/SamanthaBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is a dedicated ice dancer with a passion for the sport. Enjolras wants to challenge gender norms and antagonise the officials who say a pair needs to be a boy and a girl to qualify. </p>
<p>An ice dancing AU based on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CbKG9NZpX98"> this video</a> and the comment by Tumblr user roevolution: "were you guys aware that enjolras and combeferre were ice dancers".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolutions on Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Um yeah this is my first real multi chaptered fic on this site so I hope it's okay. I hope it's not too obvious that I don't know how to skate in the slightest. I really hope you like it.

Enjolras licked up the cone of his ice cream, catching a stray drop before it met his fingers. His attention was divided, half fixed on the honeycomb ice cream he had bought himself and half on the shouting coming from the ice. The shouting was so loud, and so high-pitched, that it hurt his ears. It seemed Combeferre’s partner was trying to quit.

“Maman, I don’t want to wear that!” she begged, tears pouring down her face. Her mother was holding out what looked like a tiny purple tutu. 

“Come now, Yvette!” her mother said. “You can’t perform your routine in the competition with your jeans on. Don’t you want to win?”

“No!” Yvette begged. Chubby fists were pressed to her eyes. “I don’t want to skate, I hate it!”

“Oh, stop crying and stop being ridiculous!” Yvette’s mother was the best skating instructor in the city, according to Combeferre, but she was also a hard person to get along with. Combeferre told Enjolras she had been one of the top skaters in France before she suffered a career-destroying knee injury. “I wish you were more like Etienne here. He’s a good boy; he has a passion! Where is your passion, hm?”

Enjolras could see Combeferre awkwardly clutch at the hem of his shirt reflexively, a sure sign he was anxious. Combeferre looked to the ground, then back up. Then he gave up, turned, and glided over towards Enjolras.

Enjolras got up off his seat and put his hands on the barrier. There was a small ledge at the base which he put his toes on so he could see better over the top, but he did spill a little ice cream on the rink as he hoisted himself up. Combeferre was nine, two years older than Enjolras, and so was much taller. The added height of his skates and the rink made him tower even more. 

Combeferre looked upset. Enjolras wordlessly held out his half-eaten ice cream. Combeferre accepted with a watery smile.

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asked. Of course he knew what was wrong, but he wanted his friend to have the opportunity to spill it. 

“I don’t want to skate with anyone who doesn’t want to skate,” said Combeferre in a small voice.

Enjolras walked alongside while Combeferre skated towards the exit of the rink. 

After Combeferre removed his skates and Enjolras had bought them both hot chips at the kiosk with his pocket money, Combeferre began to relax. “Yvette doesn’t like skating,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No. She likes skating, she just doesn’t like all the stuff that comes with it. She doesn’t like the dresses or the hard work. She told me she’d rather switch to ice hockey, but her mother won’t let her.”

Enjolras frowned, dipping his chip in tomato sauce and popping it into his mouth. “Why doesn’t she just wear nice trousers like you do then, if she doesn’t like the dresses?”

“Because she’s a girl.”

“So? She has legs. She can put trousers on.”

“It’s not like that.” Combeferre sighed. Sometimes his young friend acted as though he had missed some painfully important lessons growing up. “It’s… Girls wear dresses. Boys wear trousers. That’s how ice dancing is done.”

“But why?” Enjolras pressed.

“I dunno – because boys lift girls up and they do twirls and stuff and twirls look better with a dress?” Combeferre guessed. How was one supposed to explain the reasoning behind such a simple concept?

“Maybe she thinks you’re being unfair,” said Enjolras, in an overly reasonable tone. “It would be fairer if you took turns. Maybe you should wear a dress this time.”

“I – it’s not like – Enjolras!” Combeferre spluttered. “She couldn’t lift me up and do twirls. I’m bigger than she is.”

“Maybe she should be partners with someone who is smaller than her. Or maybe she should just do ice hockey.”

Combeferre looked down, eating another chip. Yvette should do ice hockey, but there was no way her mother would ever let her. 

****

On the morning of what should have been Combeferre’s competition, Enjolras’s doorbell sounded. Enjolras was the one to answer it; his mother was out and his father was taking the weekend to sleep in. Enjolras smiled when he saw his friend there, but his smile slipped off his face when he saw Combeferre biting his lip, his hands in his pockets. “I’m not going,” he said simply. 

“Oh,” said Enjolras, pausing awkwardly as he tried to figure out exactly which emotion to tinge his voice with. “Did Yvette quit?”

“No,” said Combeferre. “Well – yes. I made her. I told her I wouldn’t skate with someone who doesn’t want to skate.”

“You made her quit,” Enjolras stated unnecessarily. Then, remembering his manners, he stepped aside and said, “Come in.”

They found their way to Enjolras’s cavernous living room, where they ignored the custom made couch in favour of sitting cross-legged on the shagpile carpet floor. 

“I wish I could have gone today,” said Combeferre. “I love skating, Enj. When you’re moving so much it’s like you’re creating your own wind… when you’re moving to music as though it’s water around you… it’s amazing.” There was a soft smile on his face, but it disappeared quickly. “But that doesn’t matter. I don’t have anyone to skate with anymore.”

“I’ll skate with you,” said Enjolras, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

“You,” said Combeferre dubiously. “You don’t even know how to skate.”

“Teach me,” said Enjolras. 

“I can’t partner you! You’re a boy!”

“So are you.”

“But that’s not – you can’t –“ Combeferre stopped and shook his head. He couldn’t suppress a smile. “You’re impossible.”

Enjolras grinned, his mouth still full of sharp baby teeth that had yet to fall out.

****

Enjolras made the announcement to his parents shortly thereafter that he wanted to take up skating. His parents loved him deeply, even if they were out at work leaving him with a sitter a lot. They would give their son anything he desired.

Enjolras worked hard. He liked skating, probably not as much as Combeferre but he loved that they had this in common now. Combeferre did not find another partner and began skating singles, taking time to help his friend learn on days when neither of them had lessons. Enjolras’s patience and hard working paid off, and soon he was nearly as good as Combeferre. 

He told his instructor and his parents that he wanted to skate with a partner. Everybody was happy for him to do so, but to his continuing confusion people seemed to get upset when he said he wanted to dance with Combeferre. It made no sense to him. Enjolras and Combeferre could always be seen on the ice together, holding hands and twirling about. People seemed to find it sweet until he said he wanted to do it in a formal lesson. 

Once his father came off work early and drove his son and Combeferre to the rink instead of Combeferre’s mother or one of Enjolras’s babysitters. When Enjolras spent another lesson refusing to dance with the girls and instead begging and wheedling to dance with his friend, his father called the teacher over to the edge of the ice.

“Just let him,” he said, waving his hand impatiently. “He’s just a kid. He’ll decide to dance with girls in his own time.”

Combeferre, who had joined the same class despite it being a little too easy for him, had been happy to dance with the girls, but was happier dancing with his best friend. And so the matter was settled. 

The two learned to dance together, and they learned that they complemented one another perfectly not just in their friendship, but on the ice too. They knew each others’ movements intimately; each could read the other by a mere hand on the shoulder or brush against the side. Sometimes they could even predict when the other was about to fall.

And so it was even more senseless to each of them when they were told they would have to switch partners or they wouldn’t be allowed to compete in the under-twelves category. 

Enjolras never really had grown out of the childish urge to throw tantrums. When they were told he sat straight on the ground and began to yell at the teacher, who merely raised an eyebrow in mild distaste.

“Together we’re better than anyone else out there,” said Combeferre, ever the voice of reason. “Why should we be split up?”

“It’s not up to me,” said Irene, their instructor. She was a friendly woman who had moved up from Italy, with a lingering tan and smile lines around her eyes. “You won’t be allowed to enter. To skate as a pair you need a boy and a girl.”

“That’s not FAIR!” screamed Enjolras. He was ignored.

“There’s no prize or anything,” said Combeferre. “It wouldn’t really be cheating.”

“Boys are naturally stronger than girls,” said Irene. “You would have an advantage.”

“Girls are more flexible,” said Combeferre. Next to them, Enjolras had fistfuls of blonde hair clutched in his hands.

“Stop generalising!” Enjolras sobbed. 

“It’s not up to me,” said Irene. “You have two choices, boys. You can change partners and enter the competition, or you can keep skating together and never do it competitively. It’s up to you.”

Irene hopped easily onto the ice and skated off to join the rest of the class.

Enjolras sniffed. His anger always burned so hot, but now, as he always did, he felt the first tendrils of shame. It wasn’t fair, but he had acted exactly how he hated the ice divas in the older classes.

“Come on,” said Combeferre, his voice soft. He helped Enjolras up and guided him back a few steps to the spectators’ seating, producing a tissue from his pocket.

Enjolras rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not,” said Combeferre. His hand was still on Enjolras’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“I want to skate with you,” said Enjolras, his voice small. “It isn’t fair.”

“Why does this bother you so much?” Combeferre asked suddenly. Enjolras could see him every day. They lived next door to one another. There must be more to it than just skating.

“I just…” Enjolras’s voice trailed off. Then he sat up straight, his whole body turning towards Combeferre so his legs were twisted uncomfortably against the seat. “You remember Yvette?”

“Of course.”

“She didn’t want to dance in a dress, she wanted to do ice hockey,” said Enjolras. “Why shouldn’t she do ice hockey? Why shouldn’t I dance in a dress?”

Combeferre was frowning slightly. “Do you… really want to dance in a dress?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras firmly. His blue eyes glinted. “We should change things. Yvette should do ice hockey, and I should dance in a dress. There’s no reason why not. I’m good, you know I am.”

“But we still won’t be allowed to compete,” said Combeferre.

“We lie,” said Enjolras, as though it was so simple. “I could pass as a girl.”

What should have been going through Combeferre’s mind, at that moment, were all the things that could go disastrously wrong with this plan. What was going through his mind, however, was the image of himself and Enjolras, together holding a trophy, because they _were_ the best skaters in the field.

Against his will, a smile began to spread across Combeferre’s face. He shook his head, laughed, and said, “You’re impossible.”


End file.
